|
back | newsfromnowhere | the poetry room | write us | next poem | |
|
|
|
|
|
|
back | newsfromnowhere | the poetry room | write us | next poem | |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Insects never worry about where they are. A mosquito is so dedicated to the pursuit of warm blood that it neglects the long range plan. If a mosquito follows you into the house it waits patiently until the lights are out and you are nearly asleep then it heads straight for your ear. Suppose you miss, hit yourself in the head and knock yourself out and the mosquito succeeds in drawing blood. How will it get out of the house again to breed? What are its chances?
Insects don't seem to have a sense of place but require only a certain ambiance. A fly that gets driven 500 miles in a car and then is finally chased out the window does not miss the town where it spent its maggothood. Wherever this is it will be the same; a pile of dog shit, a tuna salad sandwich, a corpse.
|
|
back | newsfromnowhere
| the poetry room | write
us | next poem | |
